


Pulling heartstrings in the shadows

by Charona



Series: From Buri Ram to Cervera [1]
Category: Motorcycling RPF
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, BUT VERY VAGUE, Brother/Brother Incest, Brotherly Love, Childhood Memories, Coping, Denial of Feelings, Drunken Kissing, Dubious Morality, Forehead Kisses, Growing Up Together, Late Night Conversations, M/M, No Smut, Self-Hatred, Sharing a Bed, Sleeping Together, Surprise Kissing, ThailandGP 2019, This is so difficult to tag, Vague Feelings, but very mild, valencia GP 2017
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-12
Updated: 2019-10-25
Packaged: 2020-12-13 15:43:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21000143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Charona/pseuds/Charona
Summary: ”I sometimes feel things for Marc, I shouldn’t.”“I always wondered how you manage to do that, being in your big brother’s shadow all the time. I understand why you would hate him.”Alex follows Marc.Alex looks out for Marc.Alex loves Marc.But where does he draw the line? And what if he crosses it?





	1. About the big (smaller) brother

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RosaNautica](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RosaNautica/gifts).

> Hey, guys!
> 
> I'm not really sure about how to introduce this thing.  
It's been ghosting through my mind for _days_ and I can't write anything else unless I get this one off my chest.  
So...  
This is very, very vague and the second chapter will be as well.  
It's a delicate exploration of what brotherly love is, should be and could be.  
It's all based on that kiss in Valencia and everything we know about those two boys. 
> 
> I'd like to gift this piece to the ever so wonderful **RosaNautica**, whose input shaped this work to a great extent with brilliant ideas and topics revolving around a relationship between siblings. Thank you, dear! <3 
> 
> I guess, it’s never been more important to say that this is just fiction and I intend no harm whatsoever!

_”I sometimes feel things for Marc, I shouldn’t.”  
“I always wondered how you manage to do that, being in your big brother’s shadow all the time. I understand why you would hate him.”_

Alex stares into the blackness of his hotel room and Santi’s words are a shrill ringing in his ears. It’s not what he had meant, drunk after another of Marc’s sensational wins in Misano, but in retrospect he’s elated, he hasn’t got his point. Santi just saw what everyone saw: He’s the little (taller) brother of a seven time world champion, the Atomic Ant’s Little Helper. 

But Alex is so much more than that and he wants even more and that’s the thing…  
His phone vibrating on the nightstand illuminates the blank walls with a blueish light. He knows, it’s his mother asking about Marc. Whether Marc was alright. Whether she should book a flight. Alex looks at his brother next to him, who’s peacefully slumbering, one hand underneath his chin. 

Alex himself has counted the painkillers and exchanged the beer bottle in Marc’s hands with a water bottle, which Marc endured just as reluctantly as the tests in the hospital earlier on. Marc was rather angry than hurt, but Alex can still see how severe the bruises on his back and his legs are and flinches in pain himself as he remembers Marc getting onto the bike in the afternoon with gritted teeth and watering eyes. Of course, his brother drove an amazing qualifying lap around the Chan circuit just to almost fall from the bike moments later in the pits. He leaned against Alex, unable to move, out of breath and his voice reduced to a hoarse whisper.  
“I need a break.”  
Marc admitting weakness is a first and even now Alex listens carefully to the labored intakes of breath and occasionally moans of pain from his side of the bed.  
_It was a nasty one_, he thinks and scans Marc’s calm face, all edges and sharp lines in the fading light of his phone screen, before darkness fills the room once again. _Just like so many he already had_. 

He’s seen most of them live, having raced at the same circuit mere hours earlier. But seeing your loved one kneeling in the gravel, shaken and stirred, is as hurtful as watching them conquer the race tracks and win titles is beautiful.

Alex _follows_ Marc. Not just around the world with the MotoGP2 circus, to events and parties, but through hell and high water. Through boring Math classes and fist fights on the school ground. Through the massive crashes, the gutting pain of losing. Through fights with their parents and their coaches. Just as Marc is there for him. One of Alex’s first memories is Marc and himself sitting in the bathtub and playing with Lego U-boats. It is always Marc he turns to, his closest friend, the most important person in his life. No girl is ever going to replace that solidity for Alex. They are inseparable and no teacher worrying about Marc legging behind his own classmates if he stuck around Alex all the time could ever change that. 

They stand up to the rest of the world.

It’s always been that way and always will be. Alex still remembers Marc doing up his helmet for the first time. He’s been three years old and Marc five. He’s been terrified of getting onto that bike, of the speed, the noise and the risk of hurting himself. Marc just grinned at him, crusted mud covering his heated cheeks. “If I can do it, you can, too.”  
And Alex did. The rest is history. 

Alex _looks out for_ Marc. He’s lent him clothes on various occasions and saved him from freezing to death or running around with ominous stains from spilled drinks all the time. He has to bite back a dirty laugh whenever Marc rolls up the legs of the sweatpants way too long for him. “Should have had more of Mama’s spinach, Bambino!” he’d joke and as a response Marc would kick his ass at FIFA with an unnecessary level of cruelty.  
He’s sat on multiple chairs next to Marc’s hospital beds – from Barcelona to Buri Ram. Holding his hand and waiting for him to wake up after those horrible crashes. Chest bruised, limbs in caskets, machines beeping. He’s spent days just sitting there and watching over his big brother’s sleeping form. More Bambi with his fuzzy curls and relaxed features, than the aggressive predator on track. 

He’s prayed for his brother’s safety more than once. After that fight with Valentino, after all the hate Marc received. He’s retreated to an empty part of the garage, closed his eyes and pressed a fist firmly to his lips.  
_Please, Lord, let him stay safe. Let him stay safe. Put trust in him and make him fly._  
Sometimes he feels like his personal guardian angel – talking Marc out of some stupid shit and some sense into him. Every time it doesn’t work, he spends the nights like this one, watching and watching over his big brother, after he got hurt – again. Marc lets him, although it took him a while to accept it. Marc, though being constantly pelted with attention and admiration, has always been incredibly bad at receiving something as simple as affection. 

Alex _knows_ Marc. In ways no one else knows him, not even their parents – especially not their parents. The nights they spent gaming instead of sleeping and recharging their batteries. The illegal tuning of their first bikes in the backyard. The hidden bruises from one of their countless accidents on dusty roads outside of Cervera. Alex sees the things Marc so desperately tries to hide, the pain, the pressure. He sees it in the shadows underneath those ebony eyes that look just like his own. The tensed up muscles in his neck, when the pain in his shoulder stings like a rusty blade slicing through the mended joints. They don’t need words and never needed them.

The thing is –  
Alex _loves_ Marc. For Alex it has always been that way. He’s been his hero ever since Alex formed his first logical thought, for as long as he can remember. His big (smaller) brother. His champion. His idol. The boy, who helped him pass Biology tests and whom he helped pass Chemistry. The teenager, he had his first beer with, his first Tequila and his first and last cigarette. His shoulder to cry on, when his first relationship succumbed to his dream of being a rider. His shoulder to cry on, when he made it. His mentor, teacher, guide. His everything. 

Alex is the first one to see Marc after a victory or another title. Not his team boss, not Santi, not a girlfriend. _He_’s the one to hand him the Spanish flag, the shirt and the golden helmet. A crown for a champion. He deliberately shares the spotlight with his brother and basks in his success and attention. When Marc hugs all air out of him, still sitting on the bike and trembling with the engine as much as rushes of euphoria. When Marc jumps into his arms and screams with all the upheld tension and adrenaline suddenly slipping off his shoulders, getting replaced by sheer blinding happiness. When Marc rests his forehead against his, black curls blending with his own, eyes locked, noses almost touching and they have a silent conversation in the midst of a deafening team celebration.  
“I love you.”  
“I love you, too.”  
And he does it, because Marc wants him to and he never had to ask him ever again after that first title.

Marc is his clumsy idiot big brother, who is a dangerous and ruthless killer on track and Bambi ice-skating in his daily life. Marc has always been an idiot, but he’s _his_ idiot.

Now Alex lies in the dark, swallows and covers his eyes although there is no evading the blackness he sees looming in his innards.  
_He’s not **yours**, he’s your **brother**, Goddamnit!_

The same images flash across his inner eye again, as always, when it’s dark. That certain memory. Valencia 2017. Marc’s sixth overall championship at the age of 24. First the typical clumsiness of his brother dislocating his left shoulder while receiving congratulations from Scott. A tearing sound, a pained huff and milliseconds later Marc collapsed into his arms, the triumphant grin replaced by a grimace of agony. 

“Shoulder!” He groaned and Alex reacted reflexively. He shoved Marc to the ground, fixated his flank with his knee and pulled at his arm. He relocated is brother’s shoulder right on the side of the track, victory shirt in the back pocket of his jeans. It put the smile back on Marc’s lips and he mumbled something underneath his helmet Alex didn’t understand.

Later on, he more or less pranced towards him in front of the grand stand, arms raised to meet him in a bone-crushing hug and a smile as bright as the sun plastered to his face. But Marc wouldn’t be Marc if he hadn’t made it special and so instead of catching Alex’s outstretched hands and hugging him, he gripped his head with both hands, pulled him in and – kissed him.  
Marc full on kissed him on the lips and Alex was _so_ close to punching his brother square in the face. But he couldn’t, he just stood there, Marc’s trembling hand in his hair and Marc’s warm lips on his own.  
Just fragments of a second later Marc let go of him and pulled him into a tight hug, hot breath and hoarse laughter hitting his neck, while Alex’s world stopped turning. He held onto his brother, the newly crowned champion, sharing the spotlight with him as red confetti exploded in the air above them, and at the same time felt like dying inside. He clenched a fist into Marc’s racing suit and buried his face in his neck, biting back tears of everything and nothing at all. He had everything and nothing at all. 

They talked about it later on. Well, _talked_ isn’t the right expression, because Alex just walked up to Marc late at night, after the handshakes, the hugging, the singing and after a fair amount of beer.  
“Don’t do that again.” Alex said and didn’t dare to touch Marc, who dropped the hand he lifted for their mandatory greeting. Coal black eyes pierced through him and Alex realized, he should have drunk more.  
“Do what?”  
Alex licked his lips, noticed Marc was still watching him and sighed.  
“Don’t kiss me again. It’s weird. I don’t want some stupid article about brotherly incest to overshadow your success.”  
“Our success.” Marc said automatically, just because he’s too good a soul to let Alex’s contribution to his career go unnoticed. Then he frowned and took a sip from his beer.  
_He has the same birthmark on his cheek as I do_, Alex thought and felt like vomiting.  
“Okay, yeah.” Marc said, but something flashed across his tired features, pain from other bruises, deeper and invisible ones. “I didn’t think about it, I guess.”  
It wasn’t a surprise to Alex, so he just smirked and kept fidgeting with the label of his own beer bottle.  
“You’re probably right, that was weird. I just wanted to be with you and a hug didn’t seem enough. I would be nothing without you, man.” Alex gulped and leaned in to put a firm grip on Marc’s shoulder. Marc smiled and the dimples made him look like a twelve-year-old again. “You’re my hero, Alex. I admire you so much. You’re my anchor and my wings and everything in between.”  
_Please stop talking_, Alex thought and looked up at the palm trees lining up the pool in order to keep the tears from falling. Their long shadows drew grey patterns onto the sandy tiles.  
Marc sighed and crossed his legs, heavy with exhaustion and admittedly tipsy.  
“But you’re right. I shouldn’t have done it. Sorry. Felt strange anyway.”  
It resembled a punch to his gut and at the same time it made an elated snort detangle itself from Alex’s throat. For the first time in his life he wanted to get away from Marc as fast as possible.  
Marc grinned at him and looked down at his phone, while his younger brother disappeared into the shadow of the hotel lounge again.

They haven’t talked about it ever since. It’s the one secret Alex keeps hidden from his brother, who knows him better than anyone else in the entire world. Alex doesn’t even know, how he should address the elephant in the room, what to say, if they were to stumble upon that subject ever again.  
What is he supposed to say anyway? 

_“Marc, you’re my brother, so why did I still enjoy kissing you?”_  
_“I’m jealous of everyone close to you and I don’t know what to do about it?”_  
_“Believe me, I’m not gay, but I may have fallen in love with you?”_  
_“Could you kiss me again?”_

Alex is many things and certainly an idiot at times, but he's not suicidal. 

But it did plant a seed Alex tries to rip out so hard his hands are bloody from a boulder workout, he deliberately takes too far. He goes out on dates and at the same time he tries to not neglect Marc. _I never realized how much time we actually spend together_.  
Now he does. And he tries especially hard to shove it down into that ugly, depraved darkness it came from, when Marc pulls him into a hug, kisses his cheek, ruffles his hair, puts an arm around his shoulder... fiery touches that make an icy cold shiver run down Alex’s spine.

And the next day he’s there of course, as usual. He’s there to hand Marc the flag of their home country, gold and red, and the symbol of his triumph, the helmet, gold and black. Marc is a flash of lightning rushing passed him, covered in sweat and crowned a king once again. And Alex returns to the shadows.


	2. My blood, stand by me and I’ll never let you go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whenever Marc says the words “my brother” it resembles the world’s most sacred compliment. A vow of love and care and never-ending trust.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey folks!  
First of all, thanks for being so open-minded about this whole mess and sticking with me till the end, which we reach… well, now^^  
This story has turned into a very weirdly important project for myself and I enjoyed every second of writing this. (Who am I kidding, it’s been a mess xD)  
Thanks to basically everyone for all the great support and words of encouragement and brainstorming on this! Special shoutout to **RosaNautica** for all the uplifting words and general awesomeness :D
> 
> The title is a mixture of these three songs I listened to on end while writing this story:
> 
> My blood – Twenty one Pilots  
Stand by me – Ben E. King (Ki:Theory remix)  
Brother (never let you go) – X ambassadors
> 
> Have fun with this chapter and tell me what you think about it!

Marc cries.  
It has taken the realisation four hours to seep through his race suit, his skin and curl up as a mighty knot in his chest. It has taken him half a bottle of champagne mixed with three aspirins, a mixture that bubbles unpleasantly in his stomach. The combination of all that sees him collapsing in Alex’s arms around midnight, reduced to a crying pile of overflowing emotions, draining adrenaline and bodily pain. Alex caves a little from his weight as Marc full on bumps against his chest, but catches himself and his brother in a tight embrace, leaning against the wall in the back of the hotel bar, the whole team celebrates the title in. The music blares against his ears, but all that matters to Marc is his brother holding him upright, together.  
Marc sobs and Alex’s heart breaks.  
“It’s okay, I got you.” And he does, arms firmly locked behind Marc’s back, a hand resting in his brother’s curls. “It’s okay, let it out.”  
A lot has happened today and even more has been going on over the course of this turbulent year. A difficult start into the season full of recovery appointments, impatience and pain, followed by crashes, sometimes more than one on a single weekend, wins, more crashes, doubts, pain and hunger.  
Marc has never been this hungry in his whole life. He has ambition written all over him, despite or maybe even because of his lack in size and posture. Marc’s sheer will to achieve things always gave him the last few centimetres, the physical strength. But this one was different. Losing the ability to use his arm has been a punch to the gut that has woken him up regularly at night, breathless and with tear-stained cheeks the whole winter long.  
He gave it everything on his way to recovery and learnt the hard way that a body is just a vessel and no matter how many times you repair it, the holes and stains and leaks will never fully heal. 

The day Marc heard about the Honda crew having dismantled every bike in the garage and Alex having removed the tyres from their bikes at home, he tried to pick up a fight with his brother.  
Alex just shrugged and sighed.  
“It’s for your own safety, man. You’ll do more damage than there already is, as soon as you touch a bike.”  
Their father looked up from his newspapers, eyes warm, yet immovable.  
“No riding, Marc. You’re not getting onto a bike unless you can mantle it and put its tyres on by yourself.”  
Marc stood there, cold hands firmly stuffed inside his jeans pockets. He scoffed and left the kitchen, slamming the door shut behind him. When everyone treated him like a child, he could _for God’s sake_ behave like one.  
Hours later he was busy in the gym, doing push-ups and pull-ups until his vision blurred with the lack of sugar and his hands trembled, hot and overburdened.  
He slipped from the bar and landed on his butt, more humiliated than hurt and still-  
Marc cursed in every language he halfway mastered and buried his head in his hands. His shoulder was one single source of throbbing pain.  
He saw Alex in the huge mirror and was hit by his brother’s anger in an instant.  
“God, you’re so hell-bent on getting your own will, you don’t even realise how stupid you’re acting! You could get hurt, Marc, seriously hurt. Don’t you get how badly you’re worrying Mama and Papa with that shit? And me, too?”  
The last sentence had Marc frowning and he sat there shirtless on the floor of the gym, panting, sweat coating his bare chest as well as the burning scar at his shoulder. He blinked up at the posters covering the walls, his bike with the 93 patently on display.  
“It’s all I got. It’s all I have.”

Alex sank to his knees in front of him, hands firmly clutching his cheeks.  
“Use your head.” He said and looked Marc dead in the eyes, who smirked lopsidedly at his own words being thrown at him so blatantly.  
“You’re my brother. You’re smart. Find a way out of this.”  
And Marc did. He concentrated on the little wins, the millimetres of rotation his shoulder would allow him to do, the flexibility, the muscle gain he registered with every passing day.  
Seven weeks and two days of gruelling therapy sessions and boring training later Marc danced through the kitchen on an early Saturday morning, headphones crowning his messy curls, hands raised high. His gear was a heap of orange and white on the kitchen table. Alex leaned against the doorframe and watched his brother being back on track, mentally and physically, and wiped the tear from his cheek just in time before Marc turned around and beamed at him. 

It’s one of the things, Marc lets go in that moment, leaning against Alex, his nose buried against his brother’s neck. The fear he felt on Friday, the _Oh, God, please, let the shoulder be okay. I can’t do this again_ after his accident. The pain on Saturday, when his fingers just opened up on the brakes and his legs slipped from the tank. He told everyone it was the dirt and it probably was, but Marc felt the tremor in his aching muscles, their longing for a break – a break they get now, leaned against Alex, Alex’s firm grip steadying him.  
His brain is filled with white noise.  
“Let’s get you to bed, mh?”  
Alex smirks and Marc can’t even tell whether he agrees or not, his brother just drags him out of the room. 

It’s not the first time Alex helps Marc getting into bed, but it’s different to the times he pulled shirt sleeves from bruised skin, navigating fabric around caskets and slings while Marc’s curls stuck somewhere in the pile. They always giggled it off, too comfortable around each other and used to seeing each other half-naked after the countless times their mother stripped them of their mud-crusted gear before they were allowed to enter the house.  
This time Marc is a lump of slack muscles and pained hisses, when Alex manoeuvres him to the lifts and shortly later down the corridor to his hotel room. This time Alex has his difficulties keeping his brother upright while he fumbles for his key card and unlocks the door. 

He pushes Marc into the darkness of his room and hears him grunt as he simply slumps to the ground and hugs his own knees. He isn’t crying anymore and Alex counts it as a win, but he still looks ramshackle and spent.  
“You know, there are chairs around, right? Or a bed?” he switches on the lamp on the night stand and points at the inviting pillows.  
Marc just sniffles and wipes his eyes with the sleeve of his wide hoodie.  
“Okay.” Alex’s heart breaks at the tiredness in his older brother’s voice – a tiredness, which sleep can’t fix. He feels tears dwelling up in him as he realises, how _old_ Marc looks in the soft light of the standard lamp. Dark circles around his eyes are carved into the skin, his cheeks are sunken and ashen, his lips are chapped and firmly pressed shut. But it’s the expression in Marc’s eyes that takes Alex aback the most. His brother always had the kindest eyes imaginable, melted chocolate and sun-warmed soil, joyous sparks in deep ebony. Mischief and care could alternate each other as fast as lightning and Alex can tell every time Marc is about to make a joke from the glint in his eyes, before he even opens his mouth.  
Alex still remembers starting a fight with a classmate and punching him square in the face during lunch time, because he called Marc’s eyes boring and girly.  
He was given five hours detention for it, but he’d do it again at any given time.  
Now the brown eyes look pale, drained of their warmth and clouded by physical pain as well as sheer blinding exhaustion.  
Alex sits down opposite of him, leaning his head against the wooden closet and folding his legs artfully around Marc’s. He lifts a hand and puts it on Marc’s arm resting on his knee without a word. He doesn’t know what to say, so he stays silent. 

“I never thought, I’d become one of those guys.” Marc mumbles eventually and has to clear his throat to keep his voice from breaking. “I never wanted to feel elation over everything else, when I win. I never thought, it would become a routine to stand on the top step and everything less would feel like a loss.”  
It’s a confession that breaks through his highly built walls of humour and flirtations, focus and will. It looms there in the little space between them and his hands are cold, when he squeezes Alex’s. 

“You’re just tired.” The way Alex says it makes clear he’s not just talking about physical exhaustion and at the same time it proves Marc’s point in trusting his brother with his life. His vision is blurred with the painkillers and champagne working their way through his system and it’s his excuse for leaning forward and dropping his head on Alex’s shoulder.  
It’s the same hug they shared earlier that night, but without tears and loud music disturbing them, although Marc’s shoulders tremble slightly and they both hear a faint ringing in their ears from the day’s noisy buzzing. 

Alex crouches a bit forward and rests his cheek against Marc’s hair. It’s slightly moist from the shower and new layers of champagne from a totally intoxicated José.  
“It’s alright.” He mumbles into the curls smelling of his own shampoo and their mother’s detergent. 

What happens is – that Marc loses a battle he fought for hours, the will to celebrate his title in the only way that really matters to him overpowering his fear with the friendly assistance of alcohol and drugs.  
He lifts his head, pulls Alex closer by the hem of his hoodie and kisses him.  
Alex huffs in surprise, his hand raised slightly in an attempt to do _something_, while his upper body goes completely rigid.  
This time it’s different from the one in Valencia, simply because Marc isn’t a jumping ball of euphoria and happiness, but drunk and shaky and torn-apart in a way that makes this all the more wrong. This time it’s different, because they are alone. This time it’s different, because Marc doesn’t let go of him, but clings to his hoodie as if his life would depend on it and then –  
The second Marc opens his lips for nothing more but a millimetre, Alex jolts backwards.  
“No.”  
It’s a breathless exhale combined with a violent shake of his head. He licks his lips and Marc sees it and feels like dying.  
He collapses against Alex’s chest, whose hands tremble like leaves.  
“I’m sorry.” 

Alex blinks at the opposite wall and it wouldn’t surprise him, would the whole room collapse around him in an instant. _He_ feels like collapsing. He just lets a hand run through Marc’s hair, soft strands spilling through his fingers like black water. 

Marc is drained of tears, but the pain stays as a tight knot in his throat. He gulps frantically and recites all the things he can possibly come up with that would sound like a logical and reasonable explanation.  
“I just miss home so much. I want to be close to people, that don’t just see me as a rider.” _You_. “I want a relationship with someone, who gets me. As the guy I am and not a champion.” _You_. “I love winning, but it entails so much I didn’t think about at all. I love riding, but it’s not everything to me, it’s not-“ _You_.  
Marc swallows and wipes his forehead against Alex’s chest, before lifting his head and looking at his little brother, whose face is a mask of contemplation and rapidly racing thoughts.  
Marc knows, it’s the one thing, he can’t talk to Alex about, because Alex is too big a part in it and now that it happened anyway Marc is scared beyond imagination. 

But Alex surprises him, as he’s done so many times already, and bestows him with a confident smile.  
“You’re not alone, Marc. You’ll never be alone. I’ll always be there for you and if this” he points at their room, Marc more or less leaning against his chest, their legs a messy pile cramped between the closet and the bed. “If this is what you need, I’m okay with it.” 

Alex leans back and takes a deep breath, before pulling Marc closer.  
“Two conditions. First, bed. You’re heavy, man, and staying like this will make getting up tomorrow even harder than it will already be. And second.” The humour drains from his eyes just a little bit. “I don’t want you to burry your emotions, Marc. You don’t have to hide from me.” 

_Not even this?_ Marc asks and swallows the sob clinging to his throat, when he thinks about how beautiful Alex is, how soft his lips look, how kissable, how… 

Marc casts down his eyes and the memory of Alex’s words at the after-party in Valencia are a shrapnel of ice thrust into his heart.  
_“Don’t kiss me again. I don’t want some stupid article about brotherly incest to overshadow your success.”_

“Okay.” Is all he can come up with and lets his brother drag him to his feet.  
Alex does help Marc getting undressed and it feels like his own personal purgatory all of a sudden. None of their childish innocence is left, despite Alex chuckling softly as he pulls the hoodie over Marc’s head and messes up his hair completely.  
Marc manages to undo his jeans himself, but Alex has to pull them down, because Marc can’t bend enough to do it himself.  
Marc feels like crying again and tells himself to man up multiple times. He feels more drunk now than hurt and his fingers tremble, when he holds onto Alex’s shoulder. Just dressed in shorts Marc stares up at him.  
“Thanks.” He mutters and the thought of how close Alex is and that he could just reach up and kiss him again sits uppermost in his brain, capsizing his sanity and –  
“Don’t.” Alex says and his voice is just a strained whisper. “Please, Marc, I’m begging you, don’t...”  
_Don’t kiss me?_  
_Don’t tempt me?_  
_Don’t make me hate you?_

Alex tucks him in. Marc lets him.  
He’s too _tired_ to be petty about it.  
Alex gets undressed, too, and Marc counts it as a win, blatantly staring at his brother’s naked back. 

_He’s your **brother**, Goddamnit!_

Marc feels like throwing up and screws his eyes shut as soon as Alex turns around again. 

They lay in darkness. Soon Alex’s breaths even out, but Marc drifts in and out of a sleep-like state for what feels like hours. 

Marc dreams of Barcelona. Neither football nor the town itself, but the press conference before the Barcelona GP and his emotions getting the better of him. It’s less a dream than a memory flooding back into his mind, sharp-edged focus surrounded by smudged corners, as he feels the tears burning in his eyes again. It’s the same room, the same woman offering a translation, all the same – the whole mess about him moving to Andorra and how ridiculously subsidiary it appears in the light of nearly losing his eyesight. He feels tired to the bones, wary of all the attention and furious. Marc has never been more furious in his life and the wrath paralyses his hands and makes breathing a luxury, he can only afford occasionally as air gets stuck in his windpipe. 

He’s sitting at that table again, fidgeting with the microphone in order to do _something_ and feels his words slipping from his mouth unhindered.  
_Andorra. Taxes. I’m a proud Spaniard, for God’s sake_!

_Recovery. Doctor Sanchez_!  
_For five months I believed I would never get on a bike again_!

There are tears blurring his vision and his voice abandons him just like his bike did half a year ago, when it collapsed underneath him at 338 kph. He remembers waking up drenched in sweat every night, dreaming of that solid wall that reduced his bike to chunks of metal and nearly crushed him to dust, as well. He leans his head against the microphone, lost for words and thoughts, when all he wants to do is scream.  
_I love this sport so goddamn much, I gamble with my life every fucking weekend. What does it matter where I live and pay my taxes? I nearly lost my eye sight after that crash in Germany. I was in the hospital for weeks. You’re all making a big show of it, the fastest crash ever. I nearly lost my life, for fuck’s sake! And if I held onto the bike, I wouldn’t be sitting here now and you ask questions about money_.  
He rubs his head against the microphone, gulping frantically as the underlying voice whispers the truth that drowns out his internal rant. 

_I’m so scared_.

And suddenly there is a warm hand touching his own and despite the spotlight being pointed at them and Alex being so camera-shy and cautious, he intertwines their fingers on the table surface and warmth seeps through Marc’s skin in an instant.  
_"I know.”_, Alex says, nothing but blinding love radiating from his ebony eyes. _“I know, you’re giving your best. Don’t be so hard on yourself, Marc. I’m with you. I’ll go with you. All the way and always.”_

His last words are a faint echo in the clicking of camera shutters and mumbling of reporters.  
_"I love you more than anything. Stand by me and I’ll never let you go, brother.”_

Marc opens his eyes and sees nothing. It’s so dark at first he can only see the outlines of his hotel room. He blinks and gulps, while his vision slowly sharpens. They didn’t pull the curtains closed, so moonlight and the faint reflection of the bright Bangkok skyline illuminates the back wall. It draws silver patterns onto the soft duvet covering his naked torso and Marc pulls it back. Sweat coats his chest and prickles on his scalp.  
Pain radiates through his lower back and he groans voicelessly at the stinging sensation, that feels like a thousand needles piercing through his skin. He turns to his left as cautiously as possible and takes a deep breath to bite back tears. 

He looks at his brother next to him, sleeping peacefully, one hand tucked underneath his cheek.  
Marc remembers the previous night and swallows drily. He suppresses the annoyed groan and wipes his eyes instead, before staring at the ceiling. He remembers his own little breakdown, a champion’s whining over nothing but his own self-indulgence and pressures.  
Alex handled it amazingly. As always. Inevitably Marc’s eyes wander to his brother again, his face partly illuminated by the faint lights of bright advertising signs.  
Studying Alex’s calm features, Marc stares into the abyss opening up in his innards, that deeply hidden spot, he doesn’t dare to visit during daylight. 

Marc admires Alex. He always has. His perseverance and commitment. But moreover his sheer blinding love for life, his easy-going nature that just so covers the fiery temper underneath. His laughter, how easily he’s amused about the little things happening in their daily lives. His willpower to not stand in his big brother’s shadow, but create one on his own with his own career, riding style, philosophy. Nothing, not even all his own titles combined, has made Marc prouder than seeing Alex win the championship in Valencia. 

Marc stretches out a hand and stops still just millimetres away from a curl protruding from the rest of his nightly black hair. _Don’t_, he tells himself and does it anyway. It’s a light touch, just his digits combing through Alex’s messy hair. The familiar sensation calms him a little bit, although his heart gallops through his ribcage. 

Marc trusts Alex. Like no one else in the entire world. He’s always known his deepest secrets, his biggest insecurities, his flaws. Marc has excessiveness written all over him. He’s too small, too light. He laughs too loud and he’s home too rarely. He fights too fiercely and talks too little. The only one, who never complains about it, the only person he seems to be genuinely good enough for is Alex. And Marc repays him in the only currency he knows his brother cares about. Trust and love. A bond that runs deeper even than their shared genes.  
He still thinks about a rainy afternoon in their shared room, years ago. They were studying for a chemistry test and while Marc, laying on the top bunk of their bed, threw his tennis ball repeatedly against the wall, Alex sat in his chair and wiped his eyes.  
“Come on, Marc, use your head. Metastable compounds do what?”  
The tennis ball hit the wall again and bounced back into Marc’s outstretched hand.  
“Come on, Marc, this is easy, use your head. What will they always do, even when temperature and pressure stay the same?”  
Another thud of the tennis ball hitting the ball. Alex massaged his temples and tried again with fading patience.  
“…in comparison to stable compounds, who don’t do anything?”  
Again there was just the sound of the ball, until Alex took the kneepads from the desk and threw them at his brother.  
“God, you’re hopeless! Why would you even pick Chemistry, if you’re so bad at it?!”  
Marc buried his face in the pillow and winced.  
Alex smirked and closed the school book with an surrendering sigh.  
“Oh, right, I know, because of that cute new teacher. What’s his name again?”  
Marc just lifted his head and threw the tennis ball at Alex, his brother so slouched over from laughing it hit his back and bounced into the far corner of their room.  
They never talked about it openly and they don’t have to, even after all these years and a variety of girlfriends coming and going in both their lives. It’s a silent agreement they hold sacred and they both are too busy anyway. 

Marc blinks and lets his fingertips run through Alex’s hair in a feathery motion to not wake him up.  
_God, you’re beautiful_, he thinks and knows, he shouldn’t. He shouldn’t think that, he shouldn’t do that, _for crying out loud_, but still he leans forward and places a kiss to Alex’s slightly parted lips. It’s just a peck, badly aimed and with dry lips, but it takes all of Marc’s crumbling self-control to pull back again.  
“I’m sorry.” He mutters softly and feels tears pooling in the corners of his eyes. 

_Alex, I’m sorry, I feel this way for you_.  
_I’m sorry for keeping secrets from you_.  
_I’m sorry, I’m so fucked up_. 

His lips burn and it feels like a portent of the hellfire awaiting him, once one of his crashes goes wrong. 

Marc cries himself to sleep that night, laying in the shadows, staring at his brother and into that depraved darkness. 

Nothing is world-class about the two Marquez boys waking up in the morning. Hungover and with a pained grimace Marc opens his eyes and frowns at Alex’s messy black mob of hair sticking out from the voluminous duvet.  
Marc tells Alex, he’s sorry about what happened yesterday.  
Alex tells Marc it’s alright and he says it in the same manner they usually talk about the weather. Marc sits in bed with a deep frown carved into his forehead.

Alex is quick to slip into his shirt and face the topic – Marc – with an extra layer of clothes between them.

Marc sits in bed shirtless, when the door falls shut behind Alex, and looks down at his bruised thighs, visible sources of pain that still don’t reach deep enough to compete with the one tearing at his soul. He sits on the white sheets, morning sun warming his face and still feels like trapped in the shadows of his own mind.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!  
What do you think? 
> 
> [I’m **charonaraccoon** on tumblr.]


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